Crossing Paths
by le petit lionne
Summary: Just a series of short run-ins between demon hunter Dean and alien hunter Martha.
1. Chapter 1

**So, as you guys know, I'm a big Doctor Who fan. I'm also a ****_very_**** new Supernatural fan. As of the day this story is going up, I'm only on season 2 [Thanks, Netflix!]. I guess as I progress with the series, so will the story. Enjoy!**

**I thought of this idea while listening to my music on shuffle. Florence + The Machine's Kiss With A Fist came on and the rest is history! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the Shows, the song this store was based off of or Netflix.**

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**Update: Readers, I changed a few things. Nothing detrimental to the plot, just little things that mark my development as a writer. Nothing to worry about.**

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**I**

"Here's one. Georgiana Oscawitz. Died two days ago of a knife wound to the heart. Looked like she was tortured and maimed in her bed. No prints, no weapon, no forced entry, door locked from the inside. Sounds like our kind of gig."

It'd been weeks. The boys had been driving from town to town, but aside from the random vengeful spirit, they hadn't come across any jobs. Not a single one. Dean was getting restless almost to the point of desperation.

"Sure it's not the husband?" Sam said, not looking up from his coffee. "Just because its evil doesn't mean it's us."

"She lived alone. No boyfriend or roommate or anything. It's in Black Mountain, only a few towns over. It's worth looking into, Sam. Come on! It's like there's nothing anywhere!" After a bit more prodding, the youngest Winchester finally agreed.

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They stopped at a gas station before leaving town. Sam loaded up on unhealthy snacks in the small mini-mart while Dean pumped the gas, taking in the sleepy peacefulness of the town. They'd driven through plenty of sleepy backwoods, and he always silently envied their inhabitants; even though he knew he'd lose his mind, he'd appreciate the luxury of doing nothing.

Just then, the peaceful silence was interrupted by the loud rattling of a cruiser that pulled up to the adjacent pump. The figure was a small woman, about 5'2" if he wasn't mistaken. Clad in all black leather, complete with a black helmet, she hopped off of the bike, slung a duffle bag over her shoulder and walked into the mini-mart. If not for her curves, he might have mistaken her for a pre-teen. By the time she came back out, Sam was in the passenger seat and Dean was just putting the pump back on the hook.

Her helmet was off and thankfully so, because she was absolutely gorgeous. Her brown skin looked like honey covered in milk chocolate- it seemed to glowed from the inside. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight, low bun. Her eyes, the color of whiskey and curves made Dean's mouth water. She had a confident stride in spite of the stares she got from the backwater hicks. Before climbing back on the bike, she granted Dean a suggestive wink and replaced her helmet.

Dean climbed back in the car, feeling as if he'd missed out on something fun.

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**Hope you like it! Review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I didn't actually know if I'd continue this one, but I got the urge. ENJOY!**

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**II**

The problem with small towns- well, besides the blatant bigotry, of course- was that everybody knew everything about everybody else. Sometimes, it was a blessing. Information flowed freely when you gained the trust of the town gossip or the town drunk. However, gaining that trust was the issue. No matter how drunk, or how loose-lipped, outsiders (especially ones of her _shade_) weren't particularly welcome.

She let out a soft sigh as she walked through the doors of Mountain View Funeral Home. A few mourners stared openly, but she was actually glad for those who were too caught up in their own grief to notice the stranger that crept in. She had intentionally missed the service and skipped to the reception. She singled out the Oscawitz family right away, the dead girl, Georgiana, was the spitting image of her mother. She walked timidly to the gracious, grieving couple.

"Hello, Mrs. Oscawitz, Mr. Oscawitz. My name is Martha. Martha Jones. I'm an old friend of Georgiana's. I just wanted to offer my condolences."

"Hello, Miss… Jones, did you say? Thank you. I'm sorry. I don't think I ever remember meeting you. I'm sure I would have remembered." The mother said, not unkindly, but uncomfortably.

"Internet… Facebook friends. We were sort of close that way. I traveled a long way to see her off properly." Martha said. By this point she'd become an expert liar. _Learned from the best_, she thought as she easily lied her way through the conversation. Soon she found herself in deep conversation with Mrs. Larabee, who, according to her 'knew everything about everything in this little squat of a town'. And who apparently made the best pies in the Carolinas.

She learned that "Georgie", as she was called, wasn't the first to go. She was the third person in the town to die that way: tortured with a knife wound to the heart. Martha knew it wasn't that simple. She'd read the coroner's reports and the wounds matched no knife that anybody had ever seen. But she'd seen more in her 25 years than most had in their entire lives. She knew claw wounds when she saw them. And she knew she was close. She was _so_ close. She had to stop the maniacal smile from spreading over her face, especially at this most unfortunate time. But she could feel the excitement settling in the pit of her stomach.

She had been tracking the Multi-form since Alabama, and it wasn't just hiding out like malicious Multi-forms usually did. This one was feeding on the people it was psychically linked to and moving on. He was going rogue. Not only that, but it was growing stronger. All signs pointed in the direction of the Multi-form linking to the dead, or the undead. He was linking to spirits- making otherwise benign spirits into deadly ones. Not vengeful spirit deadly, killing innocents deadly.

Being in this line of work, she'd come across many things. She'd crossed paths with hunters: bedded a few, almost wed one, outdrank a lot of them, and stole from almost all. Freelance alien hunting and demon hunting had its crossovers. Most of the time the demons _were_ the aliens, but somehow being an alien hunter was a bit harder to believe.

She stuck around for another hour, chatting up the mourners and indulging in the nibbles, avoiding the eyes of those who whispered. She made her way back to the motel, thinking the sooner she could get out of this town the better.

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It was moments like this that she loved The Doctor. One of his many random gifts had once again proven useful. The issue with being a high-ranking official of not one, but two secret organizations was that they were… well… secret. Therefore, her UNIT and Torchwood badges got her nowhere. Psychic paper, on the other hand, got her anywhere and everywhere she needed to be. In this case, it was morgue. The fourth victim had just been wheeled in.

"Ben Connors. Age 54. Same M.O. as the others. Is this what you were looking for, Doctor Jones?" She pulled on her gloves as the coroner continued to talk. The day after Georgiana's funeral, Martha examined the fourth dead body, already knowing what she would find. Nothing. Not from the body at least. As she was on her way out, two men were on their way in. She could tell hunters from a mile away. And she could swear that she could feel the one on the left checking out her ass.

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**Review! I'll continue!**

**xoxo,LPL**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry to keep you guys waiting. So sorry, in fact, that I wont make you wait any longer!**

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**Chapter 3**

"Agent Murdock. Agent Stiles," Sheriff Walters addressed them respectively, though casting them a watchful eye. Even after seeing their badges, he still didn't trust the two strange men who had fast-talked their way past the secretary and into his office. On the other hand, he was coming up empty on the Oscawitz murder and the bodies were piling up- he needed as much help as he could get.

"Sheriff Walters, we would like to see the case file on the Oscawitz girl." The shorter one said, a little too silkily for the sheriff's taste. These city boys through they knew better than him- he'd been policing this town since before this _"Agent Murdock"_ was a twinkle in his mother's eye!

"Oh," his partner, _"Stiles"- _the tall one with that hippy-dippy haircut that Walters didn't much approve of, added. "And the files on the other deaths as well."

"You'd think the FBI would be a bit more organized. 'Communication is key', I always say." The sheriff muttered as he turned to search through the small file cabinet that housed what few crimes the town had seen over the past half-century.

"What was that?" Stiles asked.

"One of your colleagues came here yesterday looking for the same file. Jones I think she said her name was." Sheriff Walters shrugged as he continued to look for the file. He knew it had to be around there somewhere.

"And what did this Agent Jones look like?" Dean, or Agent Murdock- as the sheriff knew him, said. He had a hunch. In this part of the country, it's odd to see the same traveler more than once and he knew that a small, black woman wouldn't be lingering in backwoods America without some particular purpose. His suspicions were confirmed.

"She was a little ol' thing. Maybe, 5 feet and some change. A colored girl with a funny accent- like the James Bond type. Don't see too many of those around here. 'Special Agent Jones, FBI' she said. Now where in the Sam Hill is that blasted file?" Walters said, more to himself than to the boys. It was then that they knew: they wouldn't find the file here.

"You know what? Thanks Sheriff, we'll just catch up with our 'colleague' and have her fill us in. Sorry for troubling you." Sam- Agent Stiles- said, nudging his brother. "It's been a pleasure and…uhhh… keep up the good work."

With that, the boys left- leaving the sheriff wondering where could he have put that dang file.

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"Damn it! Whoever this Jones lady is,"

"If Jones is even her name," Sam interrupted.

"Yeah. If Jones is even her real name. Whoever she is, she has the file. And I'm willing to bet that she's not FBI."

Dean, as usual, had hit the bar the night before- chatting up the locals to see what dirt he could pick up on Georgiana Oscawitz and Ben Connors. No relation, no known enemies, no dabbling in the dark arts. Hell, neither one of them had even gotten so much as a parking ticket! Nothing about this vengeful spirit was adding up. However, one thing that was on everyone's lips- besides the killer, that is- was the strange woman walking around as if she owned the place. As if she belonged.

"Well," Sam started as they pulled into the Mountain View Motel. "If another hunter is on the case, maybe she knows something we don't. Maybe she can help."

"I don't know. I don't trust it."

After checking in, it was business as usual: combing through their father's notes and researching the victims. After a few hours of drawing blanks, Dean had had enough.

"I'm going to the last vic's house. See if I can't find something useful." Sam opted to stay behind and dig a little deeper into the town's past.

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Dean pulled up to the clean, pristine house of Ben Connors. The 54-year-old widower had no children and no living relatives save for a little grey cat who had been adopted by the neighbors.

So what was making the curtains flutter like that? Dean grabbed a flashlight, his guns, and ammo before quietly making his way into the house. He was greeted with the barrel of a gun he had never seen before. Though it was dark inside the small house, he could see the blue-white energy building up inside the barrel.

"You need to leave. NOW!" The voice behind the gun hissed. As he suspected, it belonged to the pretty face he'd seen at the gas station (and the ass he'd seen outside of the coroner's office). Still, he wouldn't back down.

"No, you need to leave! You have no idea what you're dealing with, Lady." He quickly knocked her strange gun away from his face with his own sawed-off shotgun.

"It's YOU who doesn't know what he's dealing with! And right now, you're about to get us both killed. I can't kill it and worry about protecting your sorry ass, so just go already!"

They had reached a stalemate: neither one of them was going to just leave, and only one of them knew the real danger that lurked upstairs.

"Just put the gun down and walk out. You've been playing detective long enough. You don't even have any of the right equipment. Just let me handle this." Dean whispered, trying to stay calm- no small task for the more quick-tempered Winchester.

"Fine. You're right. I'll just go." The woman said, lowering her weapon and Dean lowered his as well.

"Good. Glad you- OOF!" He was caught off guard as the woman suddenly hit him with the butt of her gun. "Son of a Bitch! What the hell?!" Dean said, rather loudly for Martha's taste.

"Shut the hell up, would you? Now that we've got that out of the way, you need to leave. I'm serious. I don't want to have to hurt you… again." Martha added, smirking in the dark. She turned around and began to make her way towards the stairs.

"Oh, no you don't! You're not going anywhere, you crazy bitch!" With that, Dean scooped the small woman up into his arms and threw her over his shoulder, walking back to the door.

Martha continued to struggle against him, and finally managed to roll herself out of his tight grip. Unfortunately, in doing so she rolled onto Ben Connors' meticulously-kept glass coffee table, loudly shattering the glass and undoubtedly bruising a few ribs. Dean winced as she landed with a hard thud on the floor below. Just then, he heard a heavy slithering sound coming from above. He stared at the ceiling trying to decipher what could be making the sound; cats don't slither. "What the hell?"

He was so distracted that he didn't notice that the strange woman had gotten to her feet, and the fact that she was speaking barely registered. "I don't have time for this shit."

He turned to face her just in time for her boot-clad foot to connect with his temple. Everything went dark.

Martha turned to leave, but couldn't stomach the thought of leaving the hunter there with the Multi-Form. She couldn't resign him to that fate. Cursing her bleeding heart, she hooked her arms under his and dragged his heavy, limp body to the door. She ran to collect their weapons before lugging the unconscious man down the porch and to the black Impala out front.

"Typical." She muttered, wincing in pain. She was bruised and bloodied and at the disadvantage of having her enemy know her location. The only option now was retreat. She fished through the hunter's pockets, keeping one eye on the door. The Multi-Form hadn't yet emerged.

After finding his keys, she threw the guns and duffle bag in the back seat, then shoved the hunter in the front seat. Climbing over him to the driver's side, she shoved the key in the ignition and peeled off, hoping that her beloved cruiser would still be there in the morning.

She pulled over a few blocks later and checked out the damage she'd done. She discerned that it was nothing too serious. However, this brought up a new problem: what if he woke up?

Martha reached into her bag and retrieved the duct tape, securing the hands of the man who was now her captive. She rifled through his pockets once again and found a key marked "Mountain View Motel: 4". She had her destination.

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The door banged open and bounced against the door jamb, but Sam wasn't fazed. Dean had probably come up with nothing at the vic's place, because he had come up with just as much. He had just finished looking up Indian burial grounds in the area when the door opened. "Please tell me you found something."

When no response came, he turned to the door. What he saw was enough for him to grab his gun. A woman, the same woman who, he assumed, stole the file from the Sherriff's office, was walking backwards into the room dragging a bound, unconscious Dean into the room. He gave her just enough time to prop his brother against the wall before drawing his gun.

"God, again with the rifles!" She sighed, adjusting the bag that was slung across her back. "Look, I'm not here to hurt you. I just-"

"Prove it." He said, cutting her off. In this entire investigation, nothing made sense- least of which was her presence. His brother was unconscious, and Sam was willing to bet that she had answers.

She gestured to the open beer on the table. "Spiked with Holy Water?"

"Yup." She walked over to the table calmly. She couldn't count how many times she had had a deadly weapon pointed at her. Surely it had reached the thousands. Guns no longer frightened her…much. Martha downed the rest of the beer in one long swig. "What's next? Silver or salt?"

He handed her the silver blade from where it lay on the bed and watched as it slid smoothly down her arm, opening the skin. She let him see the blood before licking it away. When the salt came, she poured it directly on the wound, never breaking eye contact. She'd never admit it, but she secretly enjoyed this process. As they stared each other down- Sam with suspicion, and Martha with satisfaction- another voice filled the room. Dean groaned from the corner, finally coming to.

"What the fuck… What's with the duct tape, man? How'd I get back here?" Then he noticed the woman in the room. "And what is this crazy bitch doing here?!" He said, anger rising in his voice as he remembered their encounter earlier that night.

She looked at him over her shoulder, catching him staring at her ass again. "That's _Dr. Crazy Bitch_ to you, mate." She turned back to Sam. "Dr. Martha Jones. Chief M.O. of The Unified Intelligence Taskforce, Medical and Field Liaison of Torchwood III. I'm here to help."

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**Review! Let me know what you think. The multiform saga is almost at a close, so what would you guys like to see next for our trio? I'm thinking about changing the pairing... which would you like to see: Martha/Sam, Martha/Dean, or Martha/ Cass? It's your choice (if you care, that is. Lol!)**

**xoxo, LPL**


	4. Chapter 4

**I would like to apologize in advance: I know that "ellipses are the whores of punctuation" and I used them... quite generously throughout this chapter. So... sorry!**

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"I don't care who you are or who you _claim_ to work for: I still don't trust you." Dean spat as Sam cut the duct tape from his brother's hands.

"Look, you don't have to trust me. I was just getting you out of harm's way. I gave your injuries a once-over in the car and you seem fine; just some bruising… but I think I should-"

"What car?" Dean said through clenched teeth. He voice belied his rising anger, completely opposing the cool with which Martha spoke.

"The Impala." She said calmly, but she still rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming next. All Sam could do was wipe an exasperated hand over his face as the older Winchester started on a tirade- overprotective over his precious Baby. However, the boys learned rather quickly that though Dean's temper was quick, Martha's had a hair trigger: what was quiet and still on the surface boiled at her core.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that!" She said, cutting him off, pointing her small index finger to his face. Though she had to look up to him because of the height difference, it didn't make her any less formidable an opponent.

"I kicked your ass _and _saved your ass in a span of twenty minutes and you're mad because I- what- readjusted the seat? You know good and damned well that had I left you there you'd have been dinner. You would have been the next victim. And I know you bloody idiots have been in here spinning your wheels because none of the pieces fit and you have no leads except for the information that _I _happen to have. So get your head out of your ass, Winchester, and let me fucking help you!"

At this point, both men's ear perked up- and not only because she had been disturbingly spot on with her analysis.

"How do you know our names?" Sam asked with renewed suspicion, wary of their new guest.

She rolled her eyes yet again before sitting down on the closest bed, kicking her feet up, and laying back onto Dean's pillow.

"You're kidding, right? The assholes who left the gate open? You released the horde… anybody who's anybody knows the Winchesters." Her anger seemed to recede back into her cool, if only slightly cocky, attitude. She proceeded to get comfy in the bed with her clothes and combat boots still on.

"Besides, I work for a government agency that investigates paranormal, supernatural, and extraterrestrial threats. That places you two squarely on my radar. But don't worry, Big Brother's not focused on you. Bigger fish, you know?" She added.

"How do we know that you're telling the truth?" Sam asked skeptically. Dean still kept a hard eye on her, but said nothing.

"Well, for one, you haven't been killed or carted off yet. But I guess you don't know. And you don't have a reason to trust me. So I'll give you this- call it a show of good faith."

With that, she stood up and reached for her bag, noticing from the corner of her eye how Dean kept his hand on his gun. The boys watched and she dug through the small duffle bag, becoming nervous when her hand disappeared up to the shoulder inside.

She couldn't seem to find what she was looking for, so she withdrew her arm and searched with both hands. She managed to pull out a vintage distressed leather doctor's bag, a few encyclopedia sized leather-bound books, a stack of journals, a slew of weapons, a small teddy bear with a lab coat and glasses, and a small, silver wand-shaped thing. "It's not what you think…" she said, shooting a glance at Dean over her shoulder before continuing her search. Dean just smirked, thinking: _I bet it's exactly what I think it is. Hey, girls have needs too!_

"Okay, how did you fit all of that in that bag? It's… tiny! It doesn't make sense." The younger Winchester asked.

"Gift from a friend…bigger on the inside- Ah ha! Here it is!" She pulled out a thick accordion filing case and pulled out 8 files from what must have been hundreds. She handed them to Sam before carefully repacking the bag.

"This is impossible." He had spread the files out on the small table in the shoddy motel room. Dean began to look through the files as well.

"These can't be related. They're all over. No pattern! Stop wasting our time." Dean said, though anyone could plainly see that he was interested. His brow furrowed as he looked closer at the cases.

"Same exact wounds. Same markings. Same MO matching no known rituals. All victims become homicidal apparitions shortly after their deaths. Every. Last. One." She emphasized from her spot on the bed.

"So what is it? If it's a spirit that's not vengeful, not a death omen, not your run-o'-the-mill Casper… then what kind of spirit is it?" By this point, Dean was even more intrigued.

"It's not a spirit at all. Salt won't make it dissipate. Burning the remains won't make it go away. Hell, you could burn everything the victim ever touched and it still wouldn't go away until it was good and ready."

"Well then, what is it? Since you seem to know everything."

"A Multi-Form. Normally relies on a live but dormant brain-feed to cloak its true form. But this little nasty bastard I've been tracking has figured out how to tap into the mental –feed of his victims in their last moments of life and prolong that life force, wearing that form until the life-force is completely drained. Then it kills again and does the same to that form. Kind of like an organic perception filter. Unlike most other multi-forms that choose Earth to hide from the law or whatever, this one actually seems to take pleasure in killing."

"Hold on… an organic what? And what the hell is a multiform?" Dean said. In all his years of hunting, he'd never heard these terms before.

"It's an alien." Both Winchesters looked at each other, then at Martha. Dean more-so gawked before letting out an amused chuckle.

"Alien? Lady, I knew you were crazy, but you've literally just created a new level of Nuts."

"So, I guess you missed the "extraterrestrial" portion of the job description." He said with a sigh. "So you believe in demons and ghosts and vampires, but not aliens? What's the logic behind that?"

"I believe in things that I can see; that I _have _seen."

"Oh, you wouldn't believe the things I've seen, mate."

"Dean, let's just hear her out." Sam interjected.

"No, no, no, Sammy. You can jump in front of the crazy train if you want, but I think I'll pass on this one."

"I'm finally close enough to smoke this thing! Even though someone barged in and probable blew my cover. So the way I see it, you have two choices: either help me or stay the hell out of my way."

"Why would you want our help? After all, we _are_ the assholes who left the gate open…" Sarcasm dripped from Dean's every word.

Martha paused for a moment, choosing her words before speaking. "You fucked up. There's no denying that. But you're not _fuck ups._ I know what you guys have done and what you _are_ doing. You're good and you're… useful. " She looked away from the boys, a bit embarrassed that she was asking for help. "I can do this on my own, but I'd have a better shot if you guys had my back on this."

The brothers looked at each other again. "Well, it's the only lead we have." Sam said with a shrug. He and Martha looked to Dean expectantly. "What the hell. I only have four more months to live anyway. Why not cross 'Aliens' off the 'ol bucket list." He took one last swig of beer and started packing a bag. The Winchesters were going alien hunting.

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**I finally gave you guys a time frame to work with! Yay, me! Yay, you guys! Now you know that this fic (for the time being, at least) is set after the gate was opened but before Dean goes to Hell. There's a reason for that.**

**Hope you liked it! More to come!**

**xoxo, LPL**


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